So I had a super fun weekend, you guys. To be fair, it was fun until about 10pm Sunday night, so that's like 99% fun.
I had traveled the great distance LA to Houston to meet a bazillion friends for an annual tradition known as "Masseypaloooza." Though usually held in Malibu or Hermosa Beach, this year was a tiny town called Round Top, Texas because my friend is basically the mayor and can do whatever the fuck he wants. It was a lovely weekend spent with people I don't see more than once or twice a year, sitting in a ridiculously ironic "redneck hottub" (pickup truck bed filled with water) and a slip n slide made from 50 feet of black plastic that someone was able to find on Amazon.
Oh, and also we ate. A LOT. I can't really express this in terms most people understand, but for those of you who know me, I basically ate like I do at an Indian buffet - FOR EVERY MEAL FOR THREE DAYS. It was Texas, so I was filled with beef, cheese and pie to the point where my stomach was taut like it was carrying a baby and not just future poop.
But as you might've guessed, the real story lies in the return home. A friend and I were on the same Southwest flight home late Sunday night, the last of the friends to leave. Our flight was delayed half an hour so we went and had some nachos, finishing in time to board with our beautiful A59 and A60 boarding passes.
I started the flight off reading my new book about a murder, because duh, and eventually I got tired. As I turned off the light and put the book in the seat pocket, I started to feel not so great. Not terrible, but uncomfortable.
This ramped up slowly.
Ugh, I wish I hadn't eaten those nachos.
Ok, I really wish I hadn't eaten 50% of the food I ate this weekend. Except the pie, I do not regret that.
Hmm, maybe I should wake up this weird middle seat guy who smells like hot garbage, which isn't helping my situation, and get out to go to the bathroom. Just in case.
I get to the bathroom, luckily unoccupied, and try to think. Was this going to be a Hawaii situation? Did I need more than one receptacle for what was about to escape my angry stomach?
At this point we were about 2 hours into an almost four-hour flight. I decided this would be a good time to begin vomiting. There were a couple of fake outs, where you finish and you think you feel all better and can continue to live your life as you once did, but then return to your seat and smell Mr. Hot Garbage and realize NOPE NOT DONE YET.
The friendly flight attendants quickly figured out that I wasn't in the bathroom doing lines, and kept me supplied with water as I simply gave up on going back to my seat and started hanging out in the back of the plane with them. It didn't get better. It got worse. I started getting dehydrated and being unable to stand up. They kindly found me a seat in the back row, but I was past that point now.
"I know this isn't really acceptable safety protocol and stuff, but can I just lay on the floor? Like right here? Literally next to your feet and the bathroom and the place you make drinks?"
"Sure, honey." Goddamn they were the best flight attendants.
So I sprawled out on the floor of the back of the airplane, as I'm sure many of you have done before, smelling of my own puke and shame, and all I could think of was "please please please don't shit your pants this time."
I would like to take this short moment to tell you about a gift my friend got me. My best friend lives in Singapore, and she recently went to Vietnam for vacation where things are cheap and amazing. She saw a shirt that was perfect for me, bought it for like $2 or something, and brought it to Houston for me. It hilariously said "If you're single and you know it hug your cat."
I was wearing that shirt. I was wearing a puke-splattered "if you're single and you know it hug your cat" shirt while laying on the floor of an airplane galley in front of two flight attendants and an entire plane full of passengers (just wait).
When it was clear that I was not going to be exiting the plane without some assistance, the flight attendants had the pilot call for medics to meet me at the gate, and then made my favorite announcement:
"Ladies and gentlemen, when we reach the gate if you could please remain in your seats, we have a sick passenger that needs to exit first."
I got to do other things you're not supposed to do, like be in the bathroom while the plane lands. Didn't fully appreciate my freedom at the time. I laid back down on the floor of the plane as we taxied, because I had no more fucks to give.
Then we arrived at our gate, where the announcement was repeated, and my flight attendant saviors walked a pale, sick 30-something with dirty hair and a "hug your cat" t-shirt past every single passenger on the plane. The best part was that the guys who were maneuvering the jetway kept fucking up, and in the time we were waiting to open the door, with all eyes on me, I had one glorious final puke in the front bathroom because FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET ME OFF THIS FUCKING PLANE.
My new best friends, the LAFD medics, were waiting for me and wheeled me out to the terminal that was now empty as it was past midnight. I'm pretty sure I was given an IV in the airport, shortly after begging the attractive EMTs to let me lay on the airport floor because I mean, I'd already been on the floor of the airplane galley, and it doesn't get much worse. I remember them being vaguely concerned about me laying on the floor. NOTHING ON THIS FLOOR CAN MAKE ME WORSE THAN I AM RIGHT NOW OKAY?
Their fear materialized into a stretcher that I was buckled into like a mental patient and wheeled into a service elevator to the waiting ambulance that, as expected, was the temperature of a morgue. I started shivering like I was having a seizure. Have you ever shivered with your butt? MY BUTT SHIVERED. And it was freakin sore the next day too. It was like the only muscle in my body still working and capable of shivering. I'm sure it looked quite odd coming from a girl buckled into a stretcher and covered with sheets
The ambulance drove me somewhere - I didn't even know what hospital I was at until about 7am the next day when they let me out. Apparently there's a hospital in Marina Del Rey, FYI.
They gave me fluids, anti-nausea meds, something else I wasn't paying attention to, and I tried to sleep. They took gallons of my blood and disappeared for hours. Finally, after 6 hours in the ER, they had figured out that I wasn't dying and they couldn't really do anything more for me, so I got an Uber back to my apartment where I could slowly die alone in my own very comfortable bed.
The only thing of note that happened the rest of Monday was a random fever that night that induced the craziest night terrors ever, including a superfun bout of sleep paralysis where I was half dreaming I was about to be stabbed in bed but I could do nothing but lay there and watch. I might have welcomed that scenario 10 hours earlier.
When the fever broke, the dreams stopped, I woke up, and suddenly knew that it was over. Well, unless you count the insane bloating from being dehydrated.
But the good news...I didn't shit my pants this time.
